War Games
by LoyaulteMeLie
Summary: Futurefic. On the eve of the Romulan War, the Enterprise is tasked with establishing friendly relations with a new species.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Zero Credibility, to whom all due thanks!**

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**Chapter 1. **_Archer_

"Well, that's the offer on the table. The only offer. We can take it or leave it. And Admiral Forrest made it clear that Starfleet wants some kind of agreement. If we can't get a treaty, we need a guarantee of neutrality at least. If the Hev'shori came in on the wrong side they could change the whole balance of power in this quadrant."

Among the officers around the table, Phlox was the first to stir. His face was a study in indignation. "Captain, I must protest. Even if the subject's survival _is_ guaranteed, the mental trauma involved in such an experiment could be catastrophic."

"But survival would be guaranteed." T'Pol spoke slowly.

"There are other things of equal importance to merely physical survival, Sub-Commander." The Denobulan spoke with uncharacteristic sharpness. "And as a Vulcan, I would expect you to share that opinion."

"I do share it, Doctor. But the person involved has already indicated his willingness to take the risk."

"In these circumstances I cannot imagine that the lieutenant has the slightest understanding of the magnitude of the risk." His gaze switched to the tense face across the table from him. "I do not doubt your courage for a moment, Lieutenant. But this is something completely outside our experience."

"War games, isn't it? If I understand correctly." A shadowy smile came and went. "You can't be implying I don't understand those, Phlox."

"It's a mite more complicated than _war games_, Lieutenant," said Trip bitingly. "They want to play this one _in your head."_

Captain Archer sat back, drumming his fingers on the table top. He felt as though he'd been put in an absolutely impossible position. It wasn't the first time, and it probably wouldn't be the last. But this order seemed particularly cold-blooded. His whole gut instinct was to tell the Hev'shori to go to hell and take their treaty with them, but he was all too aware of how finely balanced the situation out here would be if the war did erupt.

He glared out of the observation room window. The huge alien ship was still motionless a couple of kilometers off their starboard bow, waiting for an answer to their proposal. If the answer was no, as he wanted it to be, it would see them off Hev'shori territory and disappear. There would be no second chances. These people didn't practice the fine arts of diplomacy and negotiation. They stated their terms, and it was 'take them or leave them'. And Admiral Forrest had left him in no doubt that 'leave them' wasn't an option, at least as far as Starfleet was concerned.

But this was a hell of a way to establish a relationship.

War games.

Or more specifically, _a_ war game.

One chosen representative of the ship's crew – in effect, a representative of Starfleet, if not Earth itself – had to submit himself to a test using the Hev'shori's technology that would transport him, mentally, into a battle scenario. It was apparently regarded as a concession that the technology would select a scenario from a period of Earth's history as provided by the ship's database. But the participant would have no say in which period it would be. Nor would he know, once in it, that it was only a simulation. As far as he would be concerned, it was the real deal. Life or death.

And his behavior would be the measure of humanity as far as the Hev'shori were concerned. They were a warlike people; according to the one small mention they got in the Vulcan database, they valued courage above everything. But what else they might value was a closely guarded secret. That was what they would be looking for in the 'laboratory rat' in their little experiment.

No concealment possible. The lab rat would act out of instinct, out of training. He would be what his life, and Starfleet, had made him.

And, given Malcolm's past, Archer couldn't help but feel that they were taking a horrendous risk. Even after running all the checks he could, and some that strictly speaking he shouldn't have been able to, the man remained in some ways a closed book to him.

There had been a time when he'd accepted Lieutenant Malcolm Reed at face value, but that was history. His trust was no longer the absolute thing it had been once; damage like that couldn't leave any relationship completely intact. The rebuilding had been slow, but it had happened. He believed that now Malcolm did regard him as his CO in more than name and gave him his ultimate loyalty. But then, he'd believed that before. And questioning him would achieve nothing. Reed could, when necessary, lie so convincingly he'd have you believing water was dry. Look how he'd got through the interview boards.

But there seemed no alternative. If there was a soul on board better able to cope with being pitchforked into a battle situation, he didn't know of one.

And yet, Phlox's concerns couldn't be ignored. To deliberately subject one of his crew to something that might leave him traumatized, possibly for life, seemed like an appalling betrayal on his part. Weren't captains supposed to safeguard the people under their command?

Silently he damned Forrest for giving him these orders. He'd have volunteered to do the job himself, but that move had been anticipated and blocked. Although no names had been named, the Admiral knew as much as he did – and probably more – about Malcolm's past. He'd said with unmistakable meaning that it was a good thing that _Enterprise_ had 'the right man for the job' on board. Presumably he was of the opinion that Reed was unlikely to be traumatized by the terror and bloodshed of a battle. Well, maybe he was right and maybe he wasn't, and if Malcolm had any objections on that score he certainly hadn't voiced them when the idea was put to him, but then he wouldn't, would he? On far too many occasions Archer had witnessed his tactical officer's almost suicidal willingness to put his life on the line.

That didn't make this _right._

He sighed. The bottom line was, he didn't have any options. Somebody had to do this, and if he were to bypass Malcolm and give the job to his second-in-command, or anyone else for that matter, it would fatally undermine the lieutenant's standing as head of his department, broadcasting to one and all the information that he didn't trust his own tactical officer. Reed would have no choice after that but to resign his post and ask for a transfer to another ship.

If it had just been the decision to inflict hellish damage on the man's feelings, he thought he could have done that. After all, Malcolm couldn't have cared all that much about _his_ feelings when he pulled that stunt with Harris. As these thoughts went through his head he was aware that his motives were divided: the awareness of the risk of placing such a vital mission in the hands of a man he still didn't fully trust was entangled with a far darker urge – to pay back some of the hurt he himself had sustained when their relationship took that all-but-fatal blow. But a lot more was involved here than either of their personal feelings. With a war threatening, the last thing _Enterprise _needed right now was disruption in her command hierarchy and a vacancy at the top of the tactical and weaponry section. For whatever else he might be, Reed was a first class weapons officer. Forrest had been right: he was the man for this job.

_If_ he could be trusted. _If_ there wasn't still some counter-programming running in the background, some mental conditioning that could be activated if necessary. _If_ Section 31 hadn't decided for some nefarious reasons of their own that, whatever the official line on this alliance was, there were reasons why it might not be such a good idea after all. If that was the case, they would have the perfect saboteur. Alone, acting on his own authority, and in prime position to blow the whole mission without anyone at all ever being the wiser.

If, for any reason, he failed the test, whatever it was … nobody but he would ever know it had been deliberate. His captain would have to carry around with him for the rest of his life the question of whether he should have done differently and sent someone else, whatever the cost.

He still had faith in his gut instinct, however. And despite what had happened, his gut instinct wanted very badly to trust Malcolm Reed.

He raised his eyes. His officers were waiting for his decision.

"Phlox, I'm going to want you to check out all the information on this process that the Hev'shori will give us. See what you can to do help mend any … 'collateral damage' afterwards. Your objection's noted, but I can't see any other way round this."

The Denobulan gave a displeased grunt, but nodded.

"T'Pol, contact them and tell them we accept. Get the details on the process and set up a time. I want Phlox to monitor Malcolm's condition at all times or the deal's off. Find out if we can do it aboard _Enterprise_, preferably in Sickbay. If we're trusting them enough to let them mess with his head, it might be nice of them to trust us enough to come on board our ship while they do it."

"I doubt whether they will comply with that request, Captain. They are a deeply suspicious and secretive people." It hardly needed elaborating; the representative of the species who had spoken to them over the comm link had been wearing a helmet with a face plate that covered him from brow to chin but for a narrow visor. Apparently, until cordial relationships were achieved none of the Hev'shori would show themselves at all without this concealment.

"No, I guess not, but it wouldn't hurt to ask. And if the answer is 'no,' find out how many people can go with him apart from Phlox. Somebody's got to go watch their backs while they're over there."

"That request might in itself constitute a cause of offence."

"I'm sure you can phrase it tactfully. Put it this way, I'm playing them at their own game: dangerous till proven otherwise. My tactical officer and my chief medical officer are vital members of my crew, and I'm not playing pat-a-cake with their safety. Treaty or no treaty."

Lieutenant Reed's mouth quirked into something like a smile. "Aren't you getting a little 'paranoid,' Captain?" he asked.

"Sure sounded like it." Trip found a smile from somewhere too, but his held a measure of trouble as well as relief. He didn't like it, but he wouldn't argue. At least not in front of others.

"Oh, it's not that. I just don't want them thinking otherwise." He produced a grin somehow too, and nodded dismissal. "Malcolm, stay back. I want a word with you."

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**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Zero Credibility, to whom all due thanks!**

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**Chapter 2.**_ Archer_

He waited till the room was empty but for the two of them.

Malcolm couldn't be said to be sitting straighter in his chair, since he'd been sitting bolt upright in it since the start of the briefing. Archer noted, however, that his hands, which had been lightly clasped on the table in front of him, were now out of view. By the angle of his arms they were now resting on his thighs, as close as he could get to sitting to attention.

Uncomfortable with such a display of extreme formality that seemed somehow – whether deliberately or not – to constitute a barrier, the captain stood up and moved to the window. The lieutenant did not turn with him, but waited silently.

"Malcolm, I don't have to tell you how important this mission is. To Starfleet, perhaps to Earth itself. But I don't like having to ask you to do this."

"You're asking me to do my job, sir." How inexpressive Reed could sound when he chose. There were no clues as to what he actually felt.

"I'm not sure something like this comes within the usual remit."

"With respect, sir, I don't see how it could do anything else. If war does break out, _Enterprise_ will be in the front line. If I can do anything to strengthen our position, that comes under the heading of ensuring the safety of the ship and her crew. And that – first and foremost – _is_ my job." The years of training had imposed on the lieutenant a discipline that could sometimes seem almost Vulcan in its inflexibility, but a hint of passion showed under the words now. "If I'm willing to take the risk – and I am willing, more than willing – then there's nobody better qualified than me to cope in that situation." After a tiny pause, he turned in the chair and met his captain's eyes squarely. "But this isn't about my willingness, or my qualifications. Is it, sir?"

Archer exhaled silently. "Not entirely. No."

"I did what I had to then. I promised you it was over. Don't you accept my word?"

"I accepted your word when you signed on under my command. I accepted you as one of my officers, answerable to me. _Only_ to me." There was still more resentment there than he'd realized, and almost against his will it spilled over. "But when push came to shove, you didn't trust me. You followed someone else's orders. Then you looked me straight in the eye and lied about it."

"You think I'd do something like that again? Ever?"

As his lieutenant came to his feet Archer glimpsed what looked like genuine anguish and anger in the grey eyes. In any other member of his crew, that expression would have been enough to fill him with remorse for his suspicions. In this man, however, there were too many shadows, too many unanswered questions, too many years that couldn't be accounted for.

"The honest truth? I don't know." He spoke flatly. There. It was out in the open, where it could be dealt with. If that was possible.

Reed stopped, one hand resting on the back of his chair. He'd gone rather white, but there was no real surprise in his gaze. "So you're sending me because you have no choice."

"Yes," said the captain, making no effort to soften the truth. He thought about adding 'I'm sorry,' but the statement would have been meaningless and, worse, insulting.

The lieutenant blinked slowly, once. He didn't move in any other physical way, but his thoughts had plainly turned inwards. After a moment he asked, "Is this a final verdict, sir?"

"I don't know," Archer repeated, a little wearily. "I guess it depends."

"'Once a traitor, always a traitor,' eh, sir?" The depth of bitterness surprised him. "It's really not that simple, you know."

"It is from where I'm sitting."

"Perhaps I've sat in different chairs." _A lot less comfortable ones_, his tone suggested. "For what it's worth, sir, I've always tried to be loyal. Whether you believe it or not, that's my nature. When the Klingons took Phlox, there was – a conflict. I didn't deal with it well; I regret what I did, but at the time it seemed the best thing to do. Harris promised me that what he asked me to do would save thousands of lives, as well as Phlox's, and ultimately benefit Starfleet. He doesn't know you like I do, sir; he doesn't trust anybody. I tried to persuade him to let me tell you, but he wouldn't. And – I was a Section 31 operative before I joined the _Enterprise_. I owed loyalty there too, however much I wished things otherwise."

"More than you owed to me."

"Not more, sir. Just – older." The eyes were now filled with a pain that was perilously convincing. "I owed him. He could have blocked my application to join this ship, but he let me go. And I was – useful to him."

The captain's growing, treacherous sense of empathy died abruptly at that admission. _You still could be, and I'd never know it._

His feelings must have shown on his face. Reed's expression closed over. "I shouldn't have told you that, should I?"

"It didn't help any."

"I did what had to be done. I was good at my job. I didn't have to like it, and there were times when I bloody well didn't." The low English voice was suddenly raw with feeling that didn't show in his face. "But I trusted him that it was necessary, whether I liked it or not. And this job you want – no, _need_ me to do now, is just the same. I'll get it done. And afterwards I'll resign. I trust you won't put any obstacles in my way."

There was a little silence. Perhaps both of them were aghast at where the conversation had taken them without warning.

"We're on the brink of a war, Lieutenant. I don't think it would be appropriate for us to disturb the command structure right now."

Reed nodded. "Understood, Captain. And thank you for making your position clear." He pulled himself stiffly upright. "Permission to return to the bridge."

Archer returned the nod. "Granted."

He watched his tactical officer turn away and walk out of the observation lounge. It didn't escape his notice that Reed's hand fumbled for an instant on the door control, as though he couldn't see the buttons very well.

But that could have just been all part of the act.

Section 31's act.

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**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Zero Credibility, to whom all due thanks!**

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**Chapter 3. **_Archer_

Unsurprisingly, he had little appetite for breakfast the next morning.

The 'test' was scheduled for 08:30 ship time. The sacrificial victim had been asked not to eat anything beforehand. Maybe there was some good reason for this, but if so nobody was explaining it.

Phlox had come to him the previous evening, talking over what he'd been able to glean from what little information had been grudgingly handed over. Apparently the nearest he could come to describing what was to take place was an 'induced hallucination', in which everything the patient experienced could be viewed via the equipment to which he was connected.

"I don't like the sound of this, Phlox," Archer had said sharply. "If they can see into his mind that clearly, there could be a lot of security issues."

"I've gone over this with Commander Tucker, Captain. Both he and I are satisfied that the information transfer will be limited to the hallucination effect." The doctor paused. "It is vital for the 'reality' of the experience that the patient thinks only of his current situation. Any attempt to access deeper levels of knowledge would disrupt the illusion and make the test worthless. Lieutenant Reed must believe that he actually is where he perceives himself to be."

"And he won't wonder how he got there?"

"Maybe so. But perhaps that too is part of the test – to see how he reacts to shock and uncertainty."

_Shock and uncertainty._ Hell. That would be one way of putting it. There were so many battles in Earth's history, and while no battle could be described as pretty, some of them were downright goddamn awful. He could name half a dozen without thinking where the casualties had numbered in the thousands, and at a guess this 'hallucination' wouldn't place its star participant anywhere particularly safe or pleasant. To make it a valid test, he'd have to be in the thick of things.

Now he looked down at his half-eaten Eggs Benedict and felt slightly sick and more than a little ashamed of himself. Even if his survival was guaranteed, Malcolm was still going to endure something that was guaranteed to be horrendous – that might leave psychological scars he'd carry for the rest of his life. True, Phlox could wipe his conscious memory of the test if necessary, but the efficacy of that as far as his subconscious was concerned was dubious. There might still be plenty of images left to haunt his dreams.

A fine time to tell the man you didn't trust him. Even if it was true. _Especially_ if it was true.

He pushed the plate away, leaned back and touched the comm button on the wall before he could think better of it. "Archer to Lieutenant Reed."

"Reed here." Even the voice had a stockade around it. Doubtless constructed timber by timber over the hours of the night, when he should have been getting some sleep in preparation. If he could sleep, of course. And it would probably have been out of the question for Phlox to give him anything to help him do so; if food was forbidden, at a guess drugs would be too.

"Uh … how are you feeling?"

He mouthed the words _Fine, sir,_ in almost perfect synchrony with the reply. If he'd thought that Reed's tone was inexpressive yesterday, this one could have been produced by a machine.

Then, to his surprise, he heard his First Officer's voice. "Captain. Lieutenant Reed is in my quarters. I thought that a little meditation coaching would be beneficial to him, since he is not permitted to eat."

"Oh. Er, fine. Good thought. Carry on, Commander." He closed the link, feeling even more of a heel than he'd done before. Even Malcolm's Vulcan superior officer had thought to offer him some support, some help to prepare him for the test.

His captain's contribution had been to make him want to leave the ship because he wasn't worth trusting after one misstep in years of faithful service.

Just great.

The Hev'shori had declined the request to carry out the test aboard _Enterprise_; the equipment was apparently too large and complex to transport readily. Surprise. But they'd gone so far as to offer 'hostages' in exchange for the three members of his crew who were to travel to their ship; officers of a rank approximating to his, if that was to be believed. They expected to be confined to the brig, asking for nothing except to be allowed to keep their faces covered. He'd given orders for guest quarters to be prepared for them instead, though a security detail would keep watch on them of course. Hopefully that gesture would be noticed and taken into account. He tried not to build too much upon their willingness to give him hostages at all, though in terms of trust, that had to mean something. It was a whole lot better than he'd offered his own tactical officer.

Damn the Expanse and damn what it had made him into. He wasn't a hero. He was a heartless, suspicious bastard who didn't deserve the crew he had. Malcolm's 'paranoid' quip of the day before came back to him on a wave of remorse; it had been made in jest, in acknowledgement of the many times that that adjective had been aimed in the other direction, but the person who made it must have wondered a couple of minutes afterwards if he'd had the Second Sight.

With a sigh he put his napkin down on the table. Time to get to the bridge, and to the start of the waiting game. In ordinary circumstances he'd have gone to the shuttle bay to wish Malcolm good luck, but at a guess he was the last person on the ship the lieutenant would want to see right now – the captain who couldn't trust him.

There was no time now to attempt to make amends, even if it was possible, and it almost certainly wasn't. As he headed for the turbo-lift he remembered the distant, ultra-professional Lieutenant Reed who'd joined the ship, hidden behind the armor that had seemed to have not one single chink in it. It had taken months of careful working to get him to lower his shields even a little, not to mention a narrow escape from death in the shuttlepod with Trip – that last had done possibly more than anything else to effect a change in his behavior. Now all that work had been undone with a few short sentences. It might have been the truth, but there are some truths that should never be revealed. Why hadn't he realized that in time?

Reed had asked if Trip could be allowed to accompany him to the Hev'shori ship as the supervising officer. In some ways it wasn't the best choice – as the chief engineer Tucker was one of the most valuable officers on the ship, and handing him over was a risk. Nevertheless, if anyone had the skills to keep an eye on the machinery in use Trip was the man. In that respect he was as automatic a choice in that role as Malcolm had been in his. But at a guess it wasn't Trip the engineer whom Reed had wanted to accompany him, but Trip the friend.

_After yesterday, he sure wouldn't have wanted to take me along._

The turbo-lift door hissed open. The bridge was in front of him. The bulk of the Hev'shori ship still filled part of the view screen. The science station was empty; T'Pol should have been there, but doubtless she had accompanied Malcolm to the shuttle bay. She wouldn't be wishing him luck – Vulcans didn't believe in the existence of it – but her presence there would be a gesture of solidarity that meant much the same thing. No doubt both she and Trip would wonder why he didn't show up, as he would ordinarily have done, but right now it seemed more important to respect Malcolm's feelings, and there could be little doubt of those. So his place was in the Captain's chair, whether he liked it or not.

The waiting was about to begin.

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**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Zero Credibility, to whom all due thanks!**

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**Chapter 4. **_Reed_

There was nothing left to do now but wait.

Lieutenant Reed lay back in the chair, trying to keep his pulse under at least some control. He hated the sensation of the straps around his arms; it made him feel trapped, though the Hev'shori had told Phlox that it was for his own protection, to keep him immobile in case he reacted physically to the simulation. The Denobulan had appeared to find this reasonable, though his frown hadn't completely disappeared.

"There is no need to worry, Lieutenant," he said now, patting the patient's arm in a fatherly fashion. "I will be here throughout. And if I am in any doubt of your well-being I have the captain's order to halt the procedure immediately. And our hosts have been left in no doubt that I will do it."

Trip was standing right behind him. His mouth looked as though he'd been chewing lemons. "You sure you're okay to go through with this, buddy?"

"Yes. I'll be fine." He used the word deliberately, the emphasis on it aimed at lightening that troubled expression. "I'll see you again afterwards."

"Sure you will. And I'll even let ya pick the movie this evenin'. We can have somethin' with lots of explosions."

"I'll look forward to it." He managed a faint smile. He tried not to see the silent, faceless Hev'shori scientists making the final adjustments to the controls of the machinery to which he was now connected.

He was as prepared as it was possible to be. His training, his instincts had told him to prepare physically; it had been difficult at first to see the wisdom in Commander T'Pol's suggestion that meditation would be a better idea. Many of the weapons disciplines he had learned and still practised included mental preparation, however; it was not so great a step, and after all the trial to come was not going to be physical in any real sense.

He closed his hands around the arm rests and exhaled slowly. The contacts on his temples felt cold, but that was all. He wondered whether he'd get any warning; whether he'd be rendered unconscious first, and how long it would be before he found himself – somewhere else. And what it would be like when he did.

During the sleepless hours of the night he'd gone over the ship's database, revising what he knew of the major conflicts in Earth's history. There were so damned many of them, that was the trouble. How could he think himself into the situation in advance, how could he prepare strategies, when he didn't know what the situation was going to be? Although apparently he wouldn't realise that he was in a simulation anyway, so any strategies he might prepare would presumably be useless. Still, he'd have felt better if he'd known what he was letting himself in for.

He looked across to the other side of the room, where behind a transparent panel the commander of the alien ship was watching the proceedings. The blank, featureless face plate gave away nothing, though the reflected light suggested eyes behind the visor.

++"It is now time. We are ready, if your officer is ready."++ The voices of the Hev'shori suggested that they didn't formulate words in the same way that humans did: the effect was rather akin to the drone of bees, and he found it curiously soothing. Even the UT gave the words something of a humming sound.

"The experiment may proceed." Phlox's disgruntlement and unease were obvious. "But I shall be monitoring the procedure at every step. The captain has entrusted me with the lieutenant's welfare and I shall take whatever steps I see fit to safeguard it."

_Maybe he doesn't want the goods damaged before they go up for sale. _He tried to clamp down the bitterness and hurt. They were things he didn't need right now. 'Once a traitor, always a traitor.' The accusation echoed between the contacts.

The metal was suddenly getting colder against his skin. His senses were starting to slide. _Just let yourself go with it. _

The last thing he felt was a hand close lightly around his own. That had to be Trip. Damn sentimental Yank.

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**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Zero Credibility, to whom all due thanks!**

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**Chapter 5. **_Reed_

"Time we were moving." The voice whispering in his ear was unfamiliar.

He lay still for an instant, heart hammering. He was in bed. How could there be a stranger in his quarters? Only his three superior officers knew the security override to his door access. _Major security incident._ _Alert the ship. Possible mass boarding scenario._

He opened his eyes, and took in his surroundings incredulously.

Instead of the featureless wall beside his bunk, a wall of canvas leaned close to him. He wasn't in his bunk, or on board the ship. He was in a tent, and lying on a narrow cot. It was dark outside, though he could hear voices and people were passing by. The air was uncomfortably close; certainly not circulated or conditioned. It carried unfamiliar smells of sweat, and leather, and horses. Not to mention that of bodies whose owners didn't practise hygiene too well.

"Come on, or he'll have our hides." A finger prodded him between the shoulder blades. He identified the accent as English, but not the same as his own. Somewhere more southerly.

With a quick movement he turned over, staring at the speaker. By the light of a crudely made lantern standing on a low camp table, he saw a human – a man a little younger than himself, with a narrow, lively, sunburned face under a cluster of reddish curls. Luminous green eyes, probably given to sparkling, but right now overlaid with solemnity.

"Right. I'm with you." For some reason the stranger didn't notice anything wrong. Satisfied that his mission was accomplished, he sat back and began donning the clothing that was draped across the bottom of his own cot.

_What the hell?_

He was wearing clothes, though he normally slept naked. Some kind of linen boxer shorts, tied with a drawstring. The other man was wearing something similar. He watched him dragging on garments that were unbelievably archaic. Two leg-coverings that tied on to the boxers with cords – half of these left undone in his haste – plus a similarly tied flap to cover his genitals. On top of that he donned a plain linen shirt, and on top of that went a dark blue tunic, on the breast of which was an embroidered badge of something that looked like a crude padlock.

"Come on, Malcolm, are you moon-mazed?" Seeing him staring, his companion leaned across, picked up what were presumably his own clothes and threw them at him. "They'll be hearing Mass soon."

His brain in a whirl, the lieutenant began pulling on the clothes, awkwardly copying what the other man had done. This was a dream. It had to be. Where was the _Enterprise? _What the bloody hell was going on?

He pinched his arm surreptitiously. Hard. It didn't work. He was still here.

The other test was to try to do something that he couldn't do when he was awake. Presumably he could fly. He willed himself to levitate. Since he was dreaming, that ought to be perfectly possible.

Except that it wasn't.

"I've never known you be so slow! Are you sickening for something? Should I call a leech?"

"No – I'll be fine. Just give me a minute." He dragged the tunic over his head. It smelled of herbs and less pleasant things. Once it was straightened and the belt that went with it fastened, he ran his hands hurriedly through his hair, trying to straighten it. It was longer than it ought to be: almost to the nape of his neck. No wonder it felt hot and scratchy.

There were boots beside the cot. They were made identically, showing no differentiation between left and right. Nevertheless, they fitted him and were comfortable.

Not one damned thing about all this was making any sense whatsoever. But one thing was obvious – that he was just going to have to go along with it until he found out what was going on. Sooner or later he'd wake up, or the ship would come for him, or ... well, _something_ would make sense. If he hadn't completely lost his marbles, of course. He didn't recall any instances of insanity tarnishing the lustre of the Reed family name, but you never knew.

There was always a first.

"Come on." The two of them pushed through the opening at one end of the tent, taking with them the lantern. It took them into a larger tent, of which theirs was apparently an annexe. This one contained a cot, somewhat larger than either of theirs, plus an assortment of coffers across which various items of clothing were thrown in a haphazard fashion that offended his sense of neatness. But the thing that drew Malcolm's incredulous gaze was directly opposite him.

_Armour. _

A complete suit of armour, to be accurate.

What a fabulous replica. The detail was incredible. Whoever had had this made must have paid a fortune for it. There was even an arming doublet to go under it, plus an assortment of weapons carefully propped up against one of the coffers. The most noticeable of these was a broadsword that measured about a metre long. It was so realistically made that there were even nicks in the blue steel blade to replicate battle damage.

A movement among the rumpled bedding on the cot drew his gaze.

"Ralf? Malcolm?" A sleepy-looking man of about thirty years of age sat up, blinking in the light as Ralf hurriedly lit several candles and placed them on stands around the tent. "We'd better hurry. We don't want to be late."

"No, my lord." Setting down the last of the candles, he picked up a silver bowl from a coffer, nodding to Malcolm to pick up the jug that stood beside it. "We'll be quick."

The lieutenant began picking up his cues. He swiftly poured water into the bowl. It was scented, and pieces of some herb or other floated on top of it.

The young man slid the sheet back and got up. He was naked and unselfconscious about it, and stood quietly while Ralf sponged him down. He was slender and well made, with the flat toned stomach of an athlete and a handsome face that was probably good-natured as a rule but right now appeared to be harbouring some dark thoughts behind it. His hair was wavy and fair, and his fingers bore several rings with what appeared to be genuine gemstones in them.

There was a folded linen sheet where the bowl had rested, obviously meant to serve as a towel. Shaking it out, Malcolm found that it was large enough for a bath sheet, but there was evidently no time for more than a quick rub-down with it before he found himself helping the young nobleman into his clothes. These were much like what he himself was wearing, except that the fabric of his blue tunic was considerably richer and it was slightly shorter. It was slit at the neck, allowing the white silk shirt underneath to peep through. The belt was of tooled leather, very fine work indeed.

His lordship sat on the bed and lifted a foot. Ralf dropped immediately to one knee and helped him on with his boots. They too were finely made, but dusty.

"And one last thing." He leaned over and pushed a hand under his pillow. It emerged again with something gleaming in it. He handed it to Malcolm and dropped his head forward, evidently waiting for the thing to be fastened around his neck.

It was an enamelled pendant on a black ribbon. Solid gold, by the weight. A figure of a white dog with a gold crown and chain around its neck.

"So." As soon as it was in place he nodded and stood up. "Ralf, I know you'll make sure everything's ready when I come back. Malcolm, you come with me."

Anxiety flared in the sea of bewilderment in the lieutenant's mind. Had he given himself away already?

It seemed not, however. The young lord who was presumably his master left the tent without a backward look, evidently expecting him to follow.

Outside they found themselves in a sea of tents, many of which in this area were rather larger and more luxurious than the one they'd just left. A short distance away the biggest one of all had pine torches flaring on posts at either side of the entrance. Men at arms stood beside these with drawn swords, examining with hard faces everyone who came. Other men were converging on the large tent, passing the sentries and entering with rapid, purposeful steps.

The two of them headed for it too. High above, the stars were hazed with thunder wrack. Malcolm glanced upwards towards them, hoping against hope to see a tiny silver star, moving rapidly against the infinite distances of space; if the ship was in low orbit it might have been just visible, but there was nothing. He was alone.

Just short of the entrance they almost collided with a much older, thick-set man with the unmistakable bearing of a soldier. His clothing was almost plain, but his authority needed no external statement. He paused for a moment, while Malcolm's master respectfully inclined his head. Taking his cue, the lieutenant copied the gesture, but did it more deeply, bending from the waist as well to be on the safe side.

"No luck at Southampton, then, my lord Lovell." The voice was deep, emerging from that barrel chest.

"No, your Grace. He took a gamble. And won, it seems." Lord Lovell's voice was bitter.

"The first throw only, Francis." There was a consoling note in the rumble. "To tell truth, I think Dickon would prefer it this way."

"Perhaps." One of the beringed hands swept through the already rumpled fair hair in a way that reminded the watching Starfleet officer poignantly of Trip. "But so much treachery already..."

The word made Malcolm wince. There was so much fear and loathing in the voice. _Once a traitor, always a traitor_. The phrase came into his head from nowhere, and hurt. Worse than usual, for some inexplicable reason. He'd played the traitor too, once. As far as Captain Archer was concerned, he'd _been_ a traitor. And nothing between them had ever been quite the same after that. You can never restore trust, once it's been broken.

And in the meantime, the part of his brain that was trying to make sense of things was feverishly searching for a flicker of memory that eluded him. He knew he'd never seen the pendant before, but he couldn't dismiss the feeling that it should mean something to him. Lord Francis Lovell. Somewhere, somehow, that name was familiar. Long ago. He'd heard it mentioned, if only once; he was sure of it. And if he could fit the two together perhaps that would give him a clue...

"This day will see the end of it, once and for all." The older man put a comforting hand briefly on the younger's shoulder. "Come now, Francis, we'll be looked for soon. And his Grace will want his hound at his side, on this day of all days."

"Jesú grant me the chance to tear the traitor's lying throat out!" said Lovell fiercely as they entered the tent. His face was pale with passion.

The words were evidently loud enough to be overheard by those already within.

The inside of this tent was bright with torches and candles. The far part of it, partly curtained off, was evidently an inner chamber. Part of a bed was visible, with a prie-dieu to one side of it. This outer part was now dominated by a long table, and gathered around it were perhaps twenty men. Several long pieces of coarse yellowish paper were unfurled on it, pinned down and held in place with inkwells and other assorted small heavy items. Most of the men were studying the paper, but one or two heads lifted.

One of these belonged to the shortest man in the room, a slight individual with dark, wavy hair. He was at the far side of the table, in the midst of the gathering, but he looked up instantly. "Francis! They told me you'd arrived. You must have ridden like a fiend out of hell."

"You don't think I'd miss this, do you, your Grace?" He went immediately to the smaller man and dropped gracefully to one knee in front of him, kissing the extended hand. "I've been bored long enough. It was dull in Southampton. Nothing to do but watch the sea."

"I'll wager you found things enough to keep you busy." A faint twinkle. "But I'm glad you're here. I need my finest dog when I go hunting a pretender."

Unnoticed across the room, Malcolm went absolutely white as the words finally made the connection in his mind. _Lovell the Dog._

_'The Cat, the Rat and Lovell the Dog, Ruleth all England under the Hog.'_

Secondary school.

History lessons.

Medieval England.

The Wars of the Roses.

Richard III. One of Shakespeare's most memorable villains: the child-murderer. The hunchback.

1485.

The Battle of Bosworth.

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	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Zero Credibility, to whom all due thanks!**

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**Chapter 6. **_Reed_

"But you sent us some valuable information." He heard the words through a buzzing in his ears. "We needed a man with that kind of local knowledge. There hardly seems to be a soul around here who knows further than the back end of his own bean patch, and then we find you have one in your retinue."

"He was born here in Leicester Shire. I'd have brought him to you myself last night if you hadn't forbidden me to come to you."

"After you'd ridden all the way from Southampton, and with a battle coming up today? You needed your sleep. But I'm told his advice on our maps was invaluable. I'll have a better idea on how to deploy my battles now." The smile was audible. "He's put a weapon in my hand I didn't have before. That swamp could turn the whole course of the fight."

_Oh, Lord God. Make it not be me they're talking about. The bit about Leicester must be just a coincidence. Anyone else. Not me. Oh God, he's looking at me. EVERYBODY is looking at me._

_This is not happening. I am asleep in Sickbay and Phlox has given me something that he shouldn't have. I am not in England in 1485. I am not in the same tent as Richard III. This is not happening. This is not happening._

He opened his eyes again. Lord Lovell was beckoning to him. The King was looking at him expectantly.

_This is not happening. So I don't have to worry._

_Just act natural, Trip would say._

_Bugger what Trip would say. He's never been introduced to a man who died hundreds of years ago. This is not happening._

But in the meantime, since to all external appearance it actually was happening, he had to do something. And that appeared to be 'walk around the table and be introduced to a ghost.'

_Act natural._

_Bugger._

His knees appeared to have suddenly taken on the consistency of spaghetti. He kept his eyes down. He wasn't going to look at anybody until he actually had to. They weren't there anyway. The fact that he could see them, hear them and (unfortunately) smell them was neither here nor there.

His gaze arrived at a pair of dusty boots that looked familiar. There was a second pair of boots beside them. They were also slightly dusty, which was surprising.

If a lord goes down on one knee, what does a commoner do?

His knees made the decision for him. Both of them. The floor of the tent was hard, baked earth. His pulse was hammering in his ears. He concentrated on the boots.

_This really is happening._ _I can't wake up. I have to deal with it._

Was it real?

Was that question actually relevant?

If you believed you were dying when you were hallucinating – really, truly believed it – did you actually die?

At the edge of his vision he saw the fingertips of the extended hand. They were clean and well-cared for. The sleeve brought with it a rather pleasant smell that reminded him of expensive aftershave.

Everyone was waiting for him to do something and he didn't know what he ought to do. His Starfleet etiquette training had been catastrophically short on handy hints for how to behave when you were introduced to a medieval English king. _Must remember to include in my report: suggestion to the Education Department to update the manual. _He felt slightly drunk.

At a guess, you didn't touch the hand. He leaned forward and up, and dabbed the shortest imaginable kiss somewhere about a centimetre above one of the jewelled rings.

Then, because curiosity got the better of him, he looked up.

The portrait hadn't been that bad. The resemblance was there, though there were almost no outward signs of royalty; his clothes were dark and plain, though he was wearing a gold brooch just below his collar that had pearls and opals set in it. But a portrait couldn't show the utter exhaustion that was printed in every line of his face. This man was living on his nerves, burning up his physical reserves, probably not far from a nervous breakdown. Starfleet would have referred him for complete rest and intensive psychological treatment months ago.

Medieval kings didn't have that luxury. This man was stuck in a situation that had beaten him into the ground and was about to destroy him.

And yet, the immediate impression wasn't that of a monster. For one thing, there was no physical deformity at all. He was actually quite good-looking, or would have been if he didn't look as though he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in months; at a guess he was in his mid-thirties, and he looked as if the last fifty years had been a constant, desperate fight for survival. He was smiling a little quizzically at being so closely and curiously studied, but though the smile hardly touched the sadness in his eyes, Malcolm was still conscious of an oddly magnetic charm.

"Will you know me next time we meet, Master Reed?" asked the King, quite kindly. He had retreated into a more formal mode of speaking; previously his whole manner in speaking to Lord Lovell had been that of an old friend.

"Yes, your Grace. I mean – I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare." The lieutenant flushed. Staring definitely wouldn't be one of the recommended courtesies.

A slight motion of the hand dismissed that issue. "You have our gratitude for speaking so fully of your local knowledge last night when you arrived, when you must have been so tired. Thanks to you, we've been able to draw up plans for today with good hope of taking the pretender's army at a disadvantage. With God's help, of course," he added, at which there was a murmur of 'Amen' from the listening lords and nobles around the table. Glancing sideways, Malcolm looked at the papers, but would have been hard pressed to identify anything on it with any accuracy; to his eyes it resembled some sort of disjointed family tree more than a map. In the Middle Ages cartography as a science was in its infancy. Some details appeared to have been inked in recently, however.

"My lord Lovell speaks highly of your loyalty, Master Reed," continued Richard gently. "I know the quality of his service to his King. I'm glad he has as good a servant in you as I have in him."

At that moment there was an interruption. A man in clerical robes almost ran into the tent and dropped to one knee in front of the king, almost pushing Malcolm aside in his haste.

"Your Grace, is it true?"

"That I've refused to hear Mass until afterwards, Father? Yes. Quite true." The voice was even gentler, if possible, but there was an utter inflexibility in it that made all argument a waste of breath. "If my cause is just, God will see that I live to do so. If it's not, I won't die having profaned the Sacrament."

There was a hiss of breath all around. Even Reed understood the significance of that bleak statement. Not just 'victory or death' – in an age where men believed implicitly that to die unshriven was to risk eternal damnation, this was courage bordering on madness.

The king stepped back. "I think we've done all we can here, my lords. We all have preparations to make. If any of you wish to hear Mass on your own account, there should be time. We move out at first light." He turned away. The cleric was hovering at his shoulder as he walked into the inner chamber, gesticulating anxiously. One or two other men went with him, but the overwhelming impression was of utter isolation.

"Well, you have your wish, Malcolm. You've met his Grace." Lord Lovell smiled down at him, though the expression held a tinge of bitterness. "Now let's go. We have a battle to win."

_Except that you won't. I remember that much. This is a losing battle and you don't know it yet. The king is going to die. Most of his supporters are going to die with him._

There were times when having had a classical education really, really had its drawbacks.

_And I'm going to die too, if I go with you._**  
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	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Zero Credibility, to whom all due thanks!**

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**Chapter 7. **_Archer_

"This is going on too long."

"There was no mention of how long the test would take, Captain." T'Pol had watched him pacing around the deck. "I am sure we would have been informed if there had been any unusual development."

"I know that. I want an update. Hoshi, get me Trip."

"Yes, sir."

"Trip here, Cap'n." The engineer's voice was low, as though he was trying to avoid disturbing what was going on, but it didn't sound particularly worried.

"How's it going over there? Is he okay?"

"Seems fine, from what I can tell. Sleepin' like a baby." At that moment there were odd soft grunting noises in the background.

"If that's him, he sounds like a pretty noisy baby." Archer tried to infuse a note of humour into his tone, but he'd rarely felt less like laughing.

"Most times he's pretty quiet. Went asleep real easy. But now and again you can tell he's dreamin'. Like now." Trip chuckled, though he quickly sobered. "Wish I knew what he's seein'. And that I could let him know it's not real. Must be pretty scary for him."

"And Phlox doesn't think he's in any danger or anything?"

"There does not appear to be any problem so far, Captain." The doctor's reassuring tones came over the comm. "The lieutenant's blood pressure is stable. The rest of his readings are within acceptable tolerances."

"He's comfortable?"

"Perfectly. His pulse is elevated, but no more so than would happen in an ordinary dream cycle."

"And how will you know when the test's over?"

"The Hev'shori inform me that he will wake up by himself." He could almost hear the shrug. "Since I have no knowledge of the procedure, I can give you no accurate estimate of when that will be."

The captain ruminated. Although what he'd heard was reassuring enough, it didn't do much to ease his frustration. What he really wanted, of course, was to be over there in person. Even a vid-link would have helped, though exactly how he couldn't have said. It was a good bet that Malcolm wouldn't appreciate the whole bridge crew watching him sleep, however. Especially if he started talking in it and came out with something particularly inappropriate.

That thought actually did make him smile. Trip had mentioned once, in private, that during the time when he'd been stranded in Shuttlepod 1 with Malcolm the lieutenant had done just that, talking in his sleep to an unknown 'Stinky.' That wasn't something he'd want made public knowledge, at any rate!

"You'll keep me informed of any changes." It was more a statement of belief than a question.

"If there is any development, Captain, you will be the first to hear of it. I guarantee that Commander Tucker here will report to you in detail and at once." The implication that he himself might be too busy to do so wasn't exactly cheerful hearing, but there was never any question of things being otherwise.

Archer hesitated. "Does he ... does it look like ordinary sleep? I mean, medically speaking?"

"There are certain variations, most of which a layman would have trouble understanding. I think he _could _be woken, if it became necessary; the sleep is not particularly deep. But some of the brain patterns are unusual. Unfortunately, although our hosts will permit me to observe them, they draw the line at allowing me to record them. Therefore I will not be able to carry out any scientific analysis of exactly what is happening." He hesitated. "I can assure you, Captain, that there is very little activity in his pre-frontal cortex. Whatever he is experiencing, mathematics probably forms little or no part of it."

A little of the tension went out of Archer's shoulders. He couldn't disregard the security implications of all this, but that was undoubtedly what Phlox was trying to tell him: that the areas of Malcolm's brain that dealt with his more specialized weaponry and tactical knowledge appeared to be largely undisturbed. At least for the present.

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	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Zero Credibility, to whom all due thanks!**

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**8. **_Reed_

He followed his master back to the tent in a daze.

This was NOT happening. It was NOT real. But he couldn't wake up. And he had no means of communicating with the _Enterprise_. If Trip were here he'd probably be able to codge up some kind of communications device from a crossbow and three hairs out of a horse's arse, but he himself wasn't that kind of a genius. Trip, presumably, was still on board ship. But where the hell WAS the ship?

What had happened to him? What should he do?

'Get out of here and run like hell,' was the first thought that came into his mind. Surely it wouldn't count as desertion if he did? He was a Starfleet officer, for God's sake, not a fifteenth-century esquire or whatever he was masquerading as right now. But where was there to run to, anyway? And desertion was desertion, he reminded himself harshly, no matter what uniform you were wearing at the time...

'Join the side that's going to win,' was the next, a suggestion that came in low and furtive and sly, underneath his guard. He thrust it away with some savagery. Reeds didn't turn their coats.

'Warn somebody,' was the next. _Oh, yes. Like anybody's going to believe me on that one. 'I come from the future and by the way, you're all going to die.' _And on the off chance – the incredibly unlikely off chance – that he was believed, he would change the course of history. Pity knew what the consequences of that would be. He daren't risk it.

He emerged from his mental paralysis to find that his fingers were methodically pushing the cords through the eyelets of Lord Lovell's arming doublet. The material was thick and heavy; it was meant to act as a buffer between the steel plates of the armour and the body. Its unavoidable disadvantage was that it acted like a super-efficient thermal layer, trapping heat and absorbing sweat. After a very few minutes it would be like a personal sauna bath.

He glanced up, very briefly, at his master's face. It was set in grim lines that made him look a lot older than his years. "Are you going to hear Mass, s – my lord?" he asked, for want of anything else to say.

Lovell shook his head. "Like master, like hound."

Ralf, who had just removed the pendant, stopped for an instant with an indrawn breath as though about to speak. Then he shook his head and went to replace the precious thing in one of the smaller coffers. Their master now wore no jewellery except a small boar badge of what looked like some kind of cheap alloy, pinned on to the front of his shirt.

They armed Lord Lovell in silence. Malcolm watched his fellow carefully and simply copied whatever he did with the opposite side of the body; the armour built up piece by piece, one shaped plate strapped to another so that they overlapped, fitting together with astonishing ingenuity. Francis stood without comment, watching them patiently, though at a guess without much attention.

At last he was finished, a man of metal who gleamed in the candlelight. The last thing to be placed on him was a silk tabard that slipped on over all, embroidered with a complex and extremely colourful heraldic design in four quarters. Only his head was still bare. "I'll be in the king's tent. Get them to meet me there when they bring the horses up."

"I'll bring your helm to you, my lord." Ralf seemed to be having difficulty with his speech.

Lovell's face achieved a smile that didn't get anywhere near the eyes. "I won't last long in the field if you forget it." He nodded at them both and left the tent. His tread was heavy, of course, but he moved easily enough. They heard his footsteps merge into the hubbub outside.

"If he had the sense he was born with he'd turn and run." Ralf pushed the flat of his hand across his face. "And if I had it I'd already be running."

"It's that bad?" Habits being strong, Malcolm had been picking up the discarded clothing, intending to lay it tidily on the cot since he didn't know where else to put it, but at this he paused, his stomach muscles clenching.

The other man spat, as though he had a bad taste in his mouth. "We'll be lucky to last till midday."

"And ... the king knows that?"

"'Course he knows that. Just doesn't know what else he can do, if you ask me. He won't run. He's screwed himself up to a fight now, and he'll fight anything that comes at him. He's a brave little bastard, I'll give him that."

Malcolm said nothing. He was fairly sure that this kind of talk about a reigning monarch was at least bordering on treason in this day and age, but Ralf was obviously eaten with grief and fear.

But if talk like this was rife through the army, Richard was riding out to battle on a horse that was already hamstrung.

"Well. Time we got our own stuff on. But we'd better visit the latrines first, I suppose. I know you've got a finicky gut at the best of times."

The prospect of being on the losing side in the upcoming battle had indeed had a rather unpleasant effect on the lieutenant's intestines, but the experience of using a fifteenth-century army latrine opened a whole new world to his incredulous and disgusted gaze. Fortunately it was a very ill-lit one, which hid most of the detail. It was probably just as well that his stomach was empty, because the stench was enough to make you heave. When he woke up – whenever that would be, because this just _had_ to be a nightmare – he was going to demand, at gunpoint if necessary, to spend at least 24 hours in decon so that even his subconscious would be reassured that he was shot of the delusionary microbes.

As he walked back to the tent afterwards, a glum and now morose Ralf at his side, Malcolm went desperately through his options again. They were diminishing fast. The first thin fingers of light were prying at the eastern sky and the camp was now seething with activity. If he was going to run, he'd better make it quick, while the confusion would give him the best chance of escape unseen.

_Reeds don't run_. Hell and blast and damnation. He couldn't do it. That left the option of trying to survive.

_Hell, you're supposed to be a tactical officer. Come up with some bloody tactics then!_ he told himself with mingled fury and despair. He thought of the broadsword with its nicks not quite smoothed out enough to be invisible. Presumably he'd be given something to fight with, but fighting with a weapon like that was an art in itself, and he'd be lucky if he could even parry the first blow aimed at him. He'd never trained with any of the other weapons he'd seen there either. And presumably, too, he'd be on horseback during the battle. He'd been taught to ride a horse, but a canter for pleasure on a well-behaved hack was one thing. Fighting for your life on a beast that was trained to be a weapon in its own right was another entirely. That's if he actually had a war-horse as such. Did esquires have war-horses? At a guess they were valuable. Perhaps he'd only have a cart-horse or something. At any rate, whatever it was, with him in the saddle its prospects were grim. If it had any sense of self-preservation at all it would ditch him at the earliest available opportunity and head for the nearest horizon.

It transpired that they had some armour, though not of anything like the quality that their master had worn. Some of it was plainly rather old, but it had been well cared for and neatly mended where necessary. Here and there one or two very minor missing pieces had been replaced with what was apparently leather, boiled to almost-solidity. A couple of anonymous boys appeared in response to Ralf's shout and began strapping them into it with nervous hands.

It didn't take as long, because there wasn't as much of it. Malcolm's arming doublet appeared to be made of straw; the coarse fibres of it scratched through his thin shirt. Nevertheless it appeared to be very effective in the sauna department. Even before the plates were being settled against his lower legs he had already started to swelter.

Both he and Ralf had blue tabards. Each bore the padlock badge embroidered on it.

They fastened a scabbard to his belt. There was a sword in it. It didn't seem even remotely real that sooner or later he was going to have to use it in anger. He wanted to draw it now and at least get a feel for the weight of it in his hand, but in this confined space he'd probably end up beheading somebody by accident.

There was a helmet too. Moving awkwardly with the weight of steel and leather on him, he picked it up and tried it on. It was like wearing a padded saucepan with a slit in it. His field of vision was hopelessly restricted. God help him, his case would have been desperate enough with perfect vision and mobility, he thought. In this lot he was a walking tin of tuna just waiting for somebody keen to make a sandwich.

"Don't put that on yet!" Ralf's voice reached him, muffled. "You'll see enough of the inside of it before we're through!"

"Right." He took it off and breathed gratefully of unrestricted air. He'd better enjoy it while he could get it.

At that moment there was yelling from outside, together with the noise of horses at close proximity.

"Time to go." His companion's face was so pale that the freckles stood out on it, disguised only by the sunburn. At a guess his own wasn't any better.

_This is not happening. THIS IS NOT HAPPENING. Phlox, for God's sake wake me up NOW!_

His legs took him out through the tent flap.

There were three horses outside. The biggest, a sand-coloured beast from what he could see of it, was like a four-legged tank in its steel armour. Two men were hanging on to its bridle. Beneath the steel blinkers covering its face, the nearest eye glared at him.

He gave it a very wide berth.

Ralf took the nearest of the remaining two, which was a sort of weird pink-brown colour and tried to bite a chunk out of his shoulder. Luckily the groom holding it managed to drag its head away in time.

So the other one, by default, was his.

He walked around to it. It was dark brown with white markings on its legs. Its black mane and tail were knotted up tightly, and like Ralf's it had leather body-armour. He caught its eye and promised retribution if it tried anything. It stared defiantly back at him and laid its ears flat.

Luckily people around him apparently knew that he'd need some kind of a hand getting on board. Ordinarily he'd have mounted with no trouble at all, but between the weight of his armour and the shifting of his fractious horse he had no chance of that. They held the horse and the saddle steady and pushed him unceremoniously up between the high front and back. Then the reins were thrust into his hands and somehow he was riding after Ralf and Lord Lovell's war-horse towards the chaos in front of the king's tent, where other mounts were being brought up.

There was an axe strapped to the saddle, just behind his right leg. He might have a better chance with that than the sword. It probably wouldn't take quite the same amount of skill to wield. He glanced around and saw a man-at-arms hurrying out of their tent, carrying the three helmets and other assorted items of weaponry, presumably spares; he had a horse too, and would obviously follow on.

Dawn was spreading fast. Looking up, he saw that the sky was clear except for a few stripes of cirrus pink-stained across the pale apricot radiance in the east. A few of the brightest stars were still hanging on in the west; he was finding it increasingly hard to remember that he'd probably visited a fair few of them. For a hallucination, this certainly had the knife-edge of absolute reality. He was beginning to fear – however illogical it might be – that it actually _was_ reality.

They pulled up at a respectful distance. From the right the sounds of mass movement indicated that the infantry was already on the move. Here and there the banners above them were starting to show vestiges of colour as the movement made them stir; a number of waiting horsemen on the left were carrying other banners, but there wasn't a breath of air to lift them and the heavy cloth hung in motionless folds.

After about five minutes the tent flap lifted and the king and his companions emerged. A gasp went up, quickly stifled; Richard was already wearing his helmet, and around the brow of it was a gold coronet. It would draw the fire of every archer in the enemy's ranks, and not even the costliest armour would withstand the punch of a steel-headed shaft sent from a longbow at anything like even moderate range.

The king knew that, of course. His face under the raised visor was set and pale in the thin torchlight, doggedly determined. All or nothing. He was putting himself out there in the full blaze of royalty, for the judgement of God.

_He's a brave little bastard, I'll give him that. _Malcolm found that he had a lump in his throat.

The small group dispersed, heading for their horses. Francis pushed through the crowd, heading for his own. Willing hands helped him to mount; he turned briefly to look at his esquires, nodded, and took up his reins.

The cavalcade formed up and left the sea of tents, heading in the same direction as what seemed like an endless column of marching men. From somewhere behind them the dawn quiet was split by the chime of a church bell.

They rode through a silent countryside. Their passage lifted a cloud of dust, and as they passed a thicket hedge the smell of wild honeysuckle briefly drifted out, sweetening the air. There was not much conversation among the infantry. Now and again a face would glance up as the horsemen passed, but for the most part the only sound was the smother of marching feet and the thudding of hooves hitting hard-packed earth.

They were obviously heading for the only piece of high ground in the area, a hillock that humped up out of the plain and lay black against the sky in front of them. Possession of it would give them an enormous tactical advantage in a pitched battle; the enemy would have to fight uphill. It obviously wasn't an inferior grasp of tactics that would lose this fight for the king.

As they reached the foot of the rising ground, the cavalry detached itself from the infantry column and rode for the crest. The riders around him and a forest of banners obscured some of the view, but the light spilling into the sky was enough now to show the landscape quite clearly.

In front of the hill, three huge blocks of armed men were assembling. Off to the right and rear, at some distance, was another very large body of men, motionless; the reserves, at a guess. Off to the right and front was a third, also motionless. Opposite this one on the left was a fourth. Away in the distance between them a haze of dust showed that the enemy was approaching.

They were walking into the perfect trap. The king had four armies under his control, placed to crush inwards like a mailed fist. How in the name of hell was he going to _lose?_

_Once a traitor, always a traitor._ The words itched and burned.

Well, he wasn't going to be one of the traitors today.

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**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Zero Credibility, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

**9.**_Reed_

It was fascinating and horrible to watch.

The battle had played out, thus far, according to plan – as far as the reactions of those around him suggested. The enemy had approached and deployed, and had sustained a first assault with arrow fire. To his surprise and professional delight, this had also been accompanied by an artillery barrage; he stood in his stirrups, trying to get a look through his visor at the primitive little cannons splitting the air with their solid shot and explosive detonations. It seemed almost beyond belief that those crude things were the unbelievably ancient ancestors of the weapons he used on board _Enterprise._ You actually had to aim them by hand, for God's sake!

Now, however, he was picking up the first signs that something was going wrong.

Gallopers had been sent to and fro with orders. He hadn't heard most of these; by now he was in a bunch of the smaller fry a little to the rear of the nobles around the king. He couldn't see much of the battle either, though he could hear it: a cacophony of yelling and screaming and crashing further down the hill, interspersed with the occasional bang of artillery.

Why hadn't either of the armies on the right or left advanced yet? A mounted man raced off to the army behind the hill. Richard was calling in his reserves.

Time passed. There was no movement.

The galloper came back again. His face under the blown hair was pallid with fear.

Words blew back on a small hot breeze that had sprung up out of the blue west "... thinks it wiser not to move..."

Another galloper had come up, this one from the army on the right. His arrival was watched desperately by a bare-headed young man with bound hands, held captive in a knot of men-at-arms a short distance away.

There was an almost inhuman scream from the king. The sun splintered off a naked sword blade as it pointed towards the prisoner. "...one son the less!"

"Christ save us," said Ralf softly in a voice of utter despair. "The bastards. The treacherous, whoreson bastards. They've turned their coats."

Malcolm's mouth was suddenly too dry for speech. He knew this was the beginning of the end.

_He won't run._

The two groups closed up, instinctively gathering to protect their suddenly threatened king. He was bareheaded, looking down the hill, staring with a crazed intensity at the battle that was disintegrating in front of him. Then the focus and quality of his stare changed. A light of recklessness kindled in his face, and he pointed, shouting, as he snatched his helmet from one of the esquires flanking him and put it back on. The gold coronet threw back the hot sunshine blindingly. He dug in his spurs and his big white war-horse sprang forward, screaming defiance.

For a heartbeat, nobody moved. Then the whole group dissolved, swung around and went galloping down the hill, streaming out in a comet-tail after the king. One insane gamble, the last throw of the dice. A glance at the field in front of him explained what was going on: the flag that marked the location of the Welsh pretender was suddenly slightly isolated from the main body of the enemy forces, and consequently vulnerable. Richard had seen the chance to destroy his enemy in person, and he was taking it. Riding straight across the face of an army which had just declared against him.

Lord Lovell was right behind him. The whole pack went too, riding straight to hell. They knew. Even Ralf shouted out something that sounded like a curse and kicked his horse after them.

_Once a traitor, always a traitor._

_But not today!_

He hardly even thought about the ship as his mount leaped forward in pursuit. He was too caught up events, too choked with exhilaration and terror. He let go of the reins, jerked the strap of his helmet loose and threw the damned thing off; it wasn't going to make a blind bit of difference. Retrieving the reins, he somehow got the axe into his hand. It wasn't going to save him, but he wanted to at least have a chance of making somebody sorry they'd met him. Now they were moving, the hot air was shocking against his sweat-drenched face.

Astonishingly, his horse picked up even more speed as they hurtled down the hill. Fighting was still going on all across it, but the king had picked a clear route through a gap that had opened up and everyone followed him. Sporadic pockets of resistance were simply mown down. Richard was heading for a green and white flag with a red dragon on it, and nothing was going to stop him.

Malcolm wasn't trying to control anything now, not even the animal underneath him. It was galloping flat out, part of the herd. This was bloody suicide. He couldn't pick out the ground to steer a course, even if the beast had been willing to respond to guidance. At any minute it was going to put its foot in a rabbit hole or something, and that would be the end for both of them. And he wouldn't even have had a chance to find out how crap he was at hand-to-hand fighting with a battleaxe. "Just mind where you're going, you stupid bugger!" he screamed.

He'd got as far as the flat ground at the foot of the hill when something like a human tsunami hit Richard's pitiful contingent from the right hand side. The army had had orders. They outnumbered him and his nobles by hundreds to one.

The very end of the comet tail received relatively little attention. Everyone wanted the honour of killing the king. At the very least the lords and nobles who'd ridden with him would have valuables worth the looting; if a horse could be captured intact, it would be worth a fortune.

That was the only reason why Lieutenant Malcolm Reed was still alive five minutes later, trying to beat his way into what should have been a battle but was something like a heaving mass of human foxhounds. He'd lost his axe and he'd been knocked off his horse and twisted his ankle, but he was otherwise undamaged. He was past realising that his survival was due to the fact that in the fall he'd lost the tabard with the lock insignia on it that had ensured Ralf had died within seconds of the impact. The Lovell badge was well known, and anybody found wearing it was a dead man.

He didn't understand why he was still alive. He didn't know where anyone was. His life was pointless, his mind on the verge of collapse.

Suddenly, without warning, a sand-coloured horse erupted out of the chaos. Its saddle was empty. Greedy hands grabbed at the loose rein, but his was the closest, and he held on. It towed him for a couple of yards, then came to a shuddering halt. Its sides were drenched in red. It eyes were rolling in panic, but it was well-trained; it stopped, trembling.

This could get him out of here. By whatever miracle, it appeared to be unhurt.

_Reeds don't run._

He tore the sword out of its scabbard and brandished it at the other men who were casting covetous eyes at the winded war-horse and its battered armour. "Fuck off, you thieving bastards!" he yelled.

Somehow he got into the saddle. He never would know how. He turned the horse and kicked it back into the uproar. _Not a traitor. Never a traitor. Find the captain._

People were trying to pull him out of the saddle. He felt something wet running down his shoulder where one of the steel plates had wrenched loose, but it didn't matter, except that his left arm suddenly wasn't working properly.

Jon. Alive. Struggling, yelling, almost overwhelmed by his attackers. His screams cut through even that din. "_Dickon, Dickon!" _As if Richard could hear him, Richard who'd been borne down by uncounted numbers and was butcher's meat by now.

A horse made a wonderful missile, especially with a madman on its back. The ugly little tussle splintered, and Jon was thrown aside, rolling, bloodied but still screaming so he was still alive: _Dickon! Dickon!_

Malcolm half fell, half slid from the saddle. _Protect the captain._ He pulled Jon upright, blanking the screams, wondering who Dickon was. Perhaps it was someone who'd come on board recently; he knew one of the astrophysics team had left to get married. He pushed the captain towards the horse. If he could get up on it he had a chance. The ship needed him. He tried to hold the sword in his left hand but the fingers couldn't close around the hilt and his gauntlets were slippery with blood, so he barged Archer against the saddle with that shoulder while he swung the blade around at the Klingons trying to close on him. "Get up, you bloody fool! Get away!" he shouted.

One of the Klingons had got hold of the rein. The horse couldn't go anywhere. It was trying to rear, lashing out with its metal-shod forehooves. The Klingon fell backwards, adding his contribution to the racket. The air was full of the stench of blood and spilled guts, some of it from a big white war-horse still kicking and screaming on its side close by. Coils of glistening stuff from the slit in its belly slid underfoot; a lake of blood made the ground sticky and treacherous.

Jon was sprawled painfully across the saddle, trying to get his leg across the high back of it. Out of the corner of his eye Malcolm saw him struggling and turned in desperation to push the armoured leg up.

Turning his back on the Klingons had been a _very_ bad mistake.

Some tactical officer he was.

Oh, that hurt. That really did _hurt_. Fucking hell.

Funny, his legs wouldn't hold him up any more. The ground came up and hit him in the spine. Hard. It felt as if it made something that was already dreadfully wrong with the unprotected back of his neck a hell of a lot worse, if that were possible. Pain and paralysis flooded through his chest. He didn't know what he'd been stabbed with, but the blow and then the fall had driven it deep into his body. Anyway, he was finished.

He glared up at Jon. The captain was just sitting up there on that bloody horse, staring around, still yelling for Dickon. For God's sake, Captain, forget bloody Dickon, whoever he is, and _get out of here!_

He tried to shout, but he couldn't seem to draw in breath any more. Vaguely he knew that this ought to be very worrying, but at that moment it was just the ultimate bloody nuisance.

_...Don't let this be for nothing..._

And then somebody switched the world off.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Zero Credibility, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

**Chapter 10. **_Reed_

"How are you feeling, Lieutenant?"

He opened his eyes and blinked incredulously at the familiar face above him. "Did he get away?" he asked.

"You may be experiencing some confusion, Lieutenant. Please lie still for a little while." The Denobulan was running the med-scanner over him.

'Confused' wasn't anywhere remotely near it. He stared around at the utterly unfamiliar surroundings, becoming aware that he was back in uniform and that his heart was hammering so hard that it was threatening to burst out of his chest. He was drenched in sweat, and for some reason he couldn't move his arms.

His eyes switched to Trip, who was leaning in from the other side, looking anxious. "For God's sake! _Did the captain_ _get away?_" he demanded impatiently.

"Uh ... buddy, I don't think you're really awake yet." Tucker patted his arm soothingly.

"Of course I'm bloody awake! Finally! It took you long enough! But the ..." He trailed off. "My God. It was the test, wasn't it?" He moved his body tentatively, half fearing to reawaken that heart-stopping pain. "I _died,_" he said wonderingly.

"Well. It may have felt that way, Lieutenant, but rest assured that I would have intervened long before that happened." Phlox put away the scanner and dropped a reassuring hand on to his shoulder. "Your physiological readings suggest that you did experience something that you found extremely traumatic, however. I am afraid that when you return to the ship I am going to want to keep you in sickbay for a while, at least until you have had time to work through your emotional disturbance." He paused. "If there is anything at all of a personal nature you wish to discuss, you are of course assured of my confidentiality."

Good old Phlox. Those disconcertingly blue eyes sometimes saw very deeply. Nevertheless as the pieces of reality began falling back into place, so did habits that were far too old for him to change now. Whatever wounds he had sustained, he would conceal.

In the meantime, he had a transfer request to put in. He could postdate it to become effective if and when he survived the war, or some miracle occurred to prevent it. Perhaps he could do that from sickbay. The sooner the better, really.

++"We have sent a report to your captain."++ A face appeared behind Trip.

A _face._ Not a helmet. Not a particularly handsome face by human standards; the jaw was narrow, the small mouth as lipless as a lizard's. The eyes appeared to have no irises, and as far as he could see the aliens had no external ears. But a face, nonetheless.

"Does this mean I passed?" he whispered.

++"It does. You are free to leave. We will be in touch with your Starfleet regarding opening discussions with a view to a treaty."++ The gloved hand pressed controls on the chair and the arm restraints hissed open.

"You did it, buddy!" Trip was grinning from ear to ear. "I'd tell the cap'n, but I guess he already knows."

"I think he knows everything he needs to." He tried to sit up, but his head swam unpleasantly and he hurriedly sat back again. "I might need help getting to the shuttle."

"We can arrange that." The chair arms had dropped down, and Trip bent and picked him as if he were a child.

The indignity was awful. He opened his mouth to protest.

"Shut up and enjoy the ride, Loo-tenant."

"I'm not sure _enjoying it_ is the phrase," he muttered, but all the same he rested his head thankfully enough on the broad shoulder with its maroon piping as the chief engineer strode back down the long corridor down which they had come. He pretended not to see Phlox's paternal smile, consoling himself with the thought that at least nobody on the _Enterprise_ could see this. It wasn't exactly a dignified method of travel for the head of a department, being carried like a baby by the head of another.

Several Hev'shori officers met them at the huge shuttle bay. All of them were now minus their helmets. They were pretty hard to tell apart, but that would probably get easier on acquaintance.

++"You did well,"++ said the one who was presumably their captain. ++"I have told your Captain Archer that he should be proud of you."++

"Thank you." It was probably more diplomatic than _chance would be a fine thing._

Phlox stepped forward to open the side of the shuttle.

"I can stand." There were benches in there. He would surely be able to hold himself upright long enough to reach one of them.

Trip set him on his feet inside the shuttle as carefully as though he were made of porcelain. The doctor stood ready to steady him, but he held himself upright with an effort. "One more thing." He turned around and looked at the Hev'shori captain. "Am I allowed to know what the test was looking for?"

The inhuman eyes looked back at him unblinkingly.

++"Loyalty."++

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Zero Credibility, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

**Chapter 11. **_Archer_

_"So traumatized by what he experienced that I had to sedate him."_

Jonathan Archer stared down at the pale unconscious face of his tactical officer.

Phlox, after delivering that solid blow to the gut, had retreated to the far side of sickbay and become engrossed in the care of his menagerie.

So much for a captain's primary duty: safeguarding the welfare of his crew.

He'd sure done a fine job of it this time. First you cripple your officer and then you send him off to fight your war for you.

Starfleet had the offer to negotiate, though. He'd passed on the request to send ambassadors. He supposed that was something.

Not bloody much though, to quote one Lieutenant Malcolm Reed.

"But he's fine – physically?" he asked, seeing the faint impressions of contacts on the forehead under the still damp dark hair.

"His hormones are stabilizing gradually. I don't anticipate any long-term effects, at least as far as his physical wellbeing is concerned. His emotional wellbeing, however, may be a different matter altogether."

The captain straightened up. "Just say what's on your mind, Phlox."

"Even if I were not constrained by doctor-patient confidentiality, Captain, I could tell you nothing of what the lieutenant is feeling. He refused to speak when he returned and knowing him I doubt very much whether he will do so when he awakes. But I have noticed before, during his unfortunately regular periods of residence here, that he talks in his sleep. And at times, on the Hev'shori ship, he became positively voluble." The Denobulan looked sternly at him. "The one word he used, over and over again, was 'traitor'. And he spoke of you. Towards the end, he was apparently fighting to save your life, telling you he was not a traitor."

Archer sank into a chair and put his face into his hands. "I know he isn't," he whispered.

"Then I suggest that you inform him of that when he wakes up. Because that is undoubtedly not what he believes."

"I know." He dropped his hands and sat back, drained. "I told him yesterday that I couldn't trust him."

"_Yesterday?_" Phlox took a step forward, outraged. "Was that what you wanted with him, after the meeting? Captain, were you out of your _mind?_"

"It's the truth!" Guilt and weariness and anger were a combustible combination, and suddenly they exploded. "He was working for an undercover unit for years before he joined the ship. He took their orders to sabotage our search for you when you were kidnapped, he sabotaged my mission and lied to my face, and I threw him in the brig for it. And I've never known since – never known whether he really does work for me, or if he'll revert to being _their_ puppet just as soon as they jerk the string!"

"The Lieutenant explained all this to me shortly afterwards." The doctor's voice was very cold. "I exonerated him freely of all blame as far as his actions affected me. Naturally you as the ship's captain could not afford to take a similarly lenient view; you have the whole ship's welfare to take into consideration. But he was placed in an absolutely intolerable position, and apart from that one incident – which resulted in the saving of thousands of lives, however uncomfortable it may have been for me personally – he has given you years of unstinting service, often at great risk to himself. And this is the man who this morning passed the Hev'shori test with, apparently, flying colours. You already know from Commander T'Pol that they value courage, but do you know what else it was that they were examining him to assess?" He glared at the captain. "_Loyalty._"

The rage passed as quickly as it had come, leaving him spent and exhausted. "I didn't need them telling me that. I don't even know why I said ... How it happened. I made one of the worst mistakes of my life and I don't know how to put it right." He looked up, not caring that despair was written all over his face. "He agreed to stay with the ship because of the war. Otherwise, I think he'd be gone already."

"Luckily for us all, Captain, loyalty is a very hard habit to break once acquired. And luckily for _you_, Lieutenant Reed's loyalty is of a very high calibre indeed. Even after being told that you despise him – for that is undoubtedly how he would have perceived such a communication from yourself – when he was under the influence of the hallucination, and therefore obeying his most basic drives, he still tried to save your life at the cost of his own. That was not the action of a man who has abandoned his core values. Unfortunately for himself, he cannot change what he is."

"Goddamn it, I don't despise him!"

"Do you not, Captain?" Phlox's voice was at its driest. "To use the human expression, 'you could have fooled me.'"

"I was an idiot. I don't have any excuse." There were a few he could have found, if he'd tried hard enough; he'd been placed in a pretty intolerable situation himself. But that should have given him more empathy with Malcolm's predicament, not less.

Having once accepted these statements as facts, he could act. He stood up. "Phlox, I want you to let me know at once when he comes round. Even if it's in the middle of the night."

"Understood, Captain." The Denobulan's expression had softened slightly. "And I will ensure that you have complete privacy."

He nodded. "I think I'm going to need it. He'll probably have plenty he wants to get off his chest. And he deserves the chance to do it."

"That, at least."

He took a last look at his still sleeping tactical officer and left sickbay. If war was coming, he'd damn well better learn any lessons he could; swallowing a well-deserved helping of humble pie would perhaps teach him something. As for salvaging the situation on a personal level, that was probably past praying for. All he could hope for was that somehow he could persuade Malcolm that his value to _Enterprise _wasn't just that of an experienced tactical officer now that there was a war looming; that he belonged there anyway, that he was wanted and needed and an essential member of the team. Find from somewhere the eloquence to batter down that steely defense he'd so wantonly erected, and reach the justifiably hurt and furious man behind it.

For all their sakes.

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**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Zero Credibility, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

**Chapter 12. **_Phlox_

"Medical log, supplement to the previous recording."

The doctor halted the programme and paused to gather his thoughts.

It had been an eventful hour.

He could quite easily have arranged for Lieutenant Reed to have regained consciousness during the alpha shift, so that the captain would only have to be summoned from the bridge. The temptation to add a small refinement of his own to Captain Archer's suffering, however, had been quite irresistible. Even the Pyrithian bat had thought it entirely justifiable (at least, she hadn't put forward any counter-argument when consulted, which classed her as at least complicit in the affair).

The sedation therefore wore off, as a result of the last dose being very carefully measured in order to ensure this, at just after three in the morning.

Well. It was only a couple of hours after 'in the middle of the night,' after all.

After sleeping solidly for some fifteen hours the lieutenant was well rested, and the judicious application of a hypospray containing drugs designed to aid his recovery had made him quite alert by the time the captain arrived.

Captain Archer, by contrast, was not particularly well rested. One had to give him credit for appearing reasonably well prepared for what he had to face, but various problems had ensured he hadn't got to bed until quite late the previous evening. He was not going to be any match for Lieutenant Reed in the quick reactions stakes.

As a trained psychologist and a qualified counsellor, Phlox had learned over the years a great deal about resolving conflicts. This relationship, like every other, had its own peculiar and unique rationales and modes of communication. He had given some thought during the intervening time as to how he could best assist the restoration of the happy status quo of the _Enterprise_'s command structure, and he had come to the conclusion that, as in so many situations before, the best recourse was to put the two combatants into a room together and then leave them alone.

So that was what he had done, although not without taking the precaution of removing anything that could conceivably be used as a missile or an impromptu weapon – and he had to take into account the fact that given the lieutenant's history, he would probably be able to make use of some rather unlikely things in that line.

It had left Sickbay looking a little naked, but at least he doubted that even Lieutenant Reed would resort to hurling livestock.

For the sake of convenience his quarters adjoined sickbay. He had retired there with a medical journal and ignored the noises that occasionally penetrated through the wall. For a man who was normally quite softly-spoken, the lieutenant had a lot of lung power in reserve, though the captain was doing a sterling job of matching him.

Eventually, silence fell.

He laid down his padd and waited.

The comm chirped. "Reed to Phlox."

"I'll be with you in a moment, Lieutenant."

Sickbay was still largely unmarked. This was more than could be said for the state of Captain Archer's right orbital socket.

Ah. He'd rather feared that words like 'give it your best shot' had been unwise, addressed to an expert in pretty well every fighting art that Starfleet recognised and probably a few it didn't. And one moreover who had unresolved hostility issues, and had just undergone a particularly gruelling experience. Really, the captain must have been feeling quite remarkably reckless when he issued that particular challenge.

And yet, the two men were sitting side by side on the bio-bed, and both looking rather more like fledglings that have fallen out of the nest than Starfleet's finest. Equally rumpled and red-eyed, equally miserable if not equally marked, but now noticeably lacking the quivering intensity of emotion that had characterised them half an hour earlier.

The storm had earthed. He suspected that no more would be said of transfer requests. Which was exactly the outcome he had anticipated.

Really, humans were fascinating, but in some respects they were so very predictable. Because, underlying everything, the years had forged a friendship between these two men that was precious to both of them. A reconciliation was possible because both of them wanted it, and that was why they were now sitting side by side waiting for him to lift them up and restore them to their respective nests.

The captain would require some assistance from his osmotic eel first, of course. Unless he was willing to announce to the world that he'd fallen over Porthos and hit his face on his computer desk. Which not everyone might believe. Commander Tucker, for one, had been very thoughtful as he walked away from sickbay after depositing Lieutenant Reed in it; he had heard every word that his friend had uttered, and he was perfectly capable of putting two and two together. Whether he would ever say anything on that score was unlikely; he would simply be glad that they'd resolved their differences. Still, it wasn't really in keeping with the dignity of the rank of captain to walk on to the bridge sporting a startling black eye, even if he was willing to blame it on Porthos.

Lieutenant Reed was more easily dealt with. He was already a marked man as far as another twenty four hours in sickbay was concerned, because until all of his indications had returned to normal Phlox had no intention of releasing him back to duty. And whether he would enjoy it or not, from a medical perspective it was imperative that he undergo some kind of debriefing, even if the contents of the file would have to remain confidential. It was vital to the efficient functioning of the ship that the doctor understood what made the crew 'tick', as the humans put it, and an experience such as the lieutenant had undergone the previous day was bound to have affected him, if only temporarily. He would bear careful watching for a while, but the past half hour had almost certainly had a cathartic effect on him, releasing a great deal of pent-up stress.

All in all, a very satisfactory ending to the entire episode.

He came back to the present, and gave the order to recommence recording. "I have allowed Lieutenant Reed to begin watching some of the movie recordings that Commander Tucker brought for him yesterday, on condition he keeps the noise down when the explosions are in progress. It will be therapeutic for him, and take his mind off the fact that he inflicted physical damage on his commanding officer, even when expressly invited to do so." He coughed to cover a laugh at the memory of Captain Archer sitting in sickbay with an osmotic eel stuck to one eye, giving him a comically piratical appearance.

"Captain Archer unfortunately sustained a minor facial disfigurement during their discussion, but it responded well to treatment. Unfortunately by the time it was completed it was too late for him to go back to bed with any benefit, so he is now taking an early breakfast in the Mess. I trust that this will not have a detrimental effect on the appetite of any other early diners.

"Under the terms of the initial agreement I am unable to record as much as I would have liked on the Hev'shori test process, but I conclude that it appears to have achieved its objective with as little long-term damage to the subject as could have been hoped for in the circumstances. Now that war would appear to be imminent, I suspect that today may prove to be a turning point, in this sector at least. Though along with all other men of goodwill, I shall continue to hope that something may intervene to avert that calamity."

He sighed. It was a diminishing hope. But he was going to hold on to it. The thought of seeing this crew, of whom he had grown so fond, being exposed to such deadly danger was almost more than he could bear. They had truly become like members of his family.

But at least now they could face whatever came as a family should.

Together.

**The End.**

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**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


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